The others waited in respectful silence at the entrance to the throne room while Atalanta and King Zanthus spoke in rapid elvish. The king stood with hands clasped gently on his daughter’s arms, occasionally reaching up to touch her cheek with an intonation of sympathy and despair.

“What are they saying?” Andrew whispered to Bree.

“The king is asking how she faired in captivity,” said Bree.

From a wave of elvish the name Tyrannus stood out on Atalanta’s lips, disgust marring her face.